


Delirium  (and other lies we tell)

by Aerowax26



Series: The Arsonist's Guide to Good Manners [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blood and Injury, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Sleep Deprivation, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 07:32:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13852995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerowax26/pseuds/Aerowax26
Summary: Even the strongest have a breaking point. For sixteen-year-old Ignis, it's 3AM in the solitude of his apartment.





	Delirium  (and other lies we tell)

 

Everything is practiced.

 _Controlled_.

From the cadence of his speech to the razor sharp crease of his trousers and the polish on his expensive shoes, Ignis' world is one of order and organization. At sixteen, he can not allow himself to be anything less than perfect.

His duties are a monumental. There's paperwork and council meetings. The political advisory board. Academic study and training.

On top of that, he's a driver, a cook, a butler, and a substitute parent to a startlingly depressed young Prince who never quite got over the traumas of his youth.

He is exhausted. Only ambition and Ebony keep him on his feet.

“You need a break,” Gladio says. “You're running yourself into the ground.”

“Ignis, we'll see you at the quarterly financial meeting next week, of course,” King Regis says.

“I'm out of toilet paper,” Noctis says.

“You're due for First Aid re-certification,” Cor says. “Meet me tomorrow at sixteen-hundred hours.”

When was the last time he slept more than four hours at a time?

He'll sleep when he's dead. For now, he has a duty to attend and whether or not his charge knows or cares about all the things Ignis sacrifices to ensure he is cared for, Ignis is bound to do his very best.

Even at the cost of his own well being.

At night, bent over stacks of reports and paperwork and lists of tasks he must complete, Ignis feels a deep unease crawling over his skin. Phantom serpents that steal precious seconds from his work.

Something is going to break.

He just doesn't know what.

 

For the third night in a row, Ignis is awake past three in the morning, buried in work. A fresh pot of coffee brews on the counter, its sputtering gurgle a comfort in the silence of his room, and he anticipates the first taste, rich and strong and delicious. His stomach is full of acid and his eyes burn, but there's so _much_ to do.

Words blur on the page before him and he realizes he hasn't assimilated the text, can't recall what he's been reading. How long has he sat here, re-reading the same text over and over again without comprehension?

Coffee. He needs more coffee if he's to focus.

From the cabinet, he takes down a fresh mug. It slips through his fingers like it's been greased and crashes to the floor. Bright splinters of ceramic blast across the tile floor in all directions and pepper his pajama pants like miniature bits of shrapnel.

He freezes, expecting a reprimand, a swat on the hand for being such a clumsy boy, but those days are well behind him. It's been ages since he needed to fear his mother's stern discipline or her desire to foster a flawless child.

She never mistreated him. Not really. Beyond a swat on the wrist, which hurt his pride more than anything, she never raised a hand to him.

_Don't forget your manners, Ignis. Tuck in your shirt. There's a scuff on your shoes._

_Sit up straight._

Never a crumb in her kitchen. The floor so spotlessly clean one could eat off it.

Not that his mother would _ever_ do such a thing.

She never suffered a broken glass. Not in her house. Even at three in the morning, when stressed and sleep deprived to the point of delirium.

Those bits of ruined ceramic mock him from the tile. They look like the starlight he once saw outside the walls of the city. An entire universe of glittering little specks at his feet.

This...

It's too much.

He picks up the largest bit of the ruined mug – the handle and a section of the side – and hurls it against the backsplash where it busts against the wall and clatters across the linoleum like loose gravel.

It feels _good_.

In a fog, he retrieves a plate from the cupboard. Smashes it against the sink. It breaks into large triangular chunks, and he thinks of his daggers, sharp enough to kill if he wanted.

It's not enough. He needs more.

One by one he dashes water glasses and bowls and dessert plates against the wall and each crash sends a ripple of satisfaction from his head to his toes. The floor and the countertop are covered in the evidence of his utter loss of control. The tops of his feet are dotted with blood from the splinters lodged in his skin and the sole of his left foot bleeds enough to leave the once sanitary floor tainted with crimson smears.

The coffee is finished brewing. The thought of another cup turns him savage and he lifts the carafe from the appliance and slings it against the wall, his breaths a heavy hiss against clenched teeth.

He's doused in stinging hot liquid that sears the skin of his chest and soaks the fabric of his pajamas. Burns his bleeding feet -

“The _fuck_ are you doing?”

Gladio, his father behind him, stares aghast at the mess, at the bloodstained floor, at Ignis' wild eyes, and Ignis finally runs out of steam.

“Thought I'd redecorate,” he says.

“Real cute, Iggy,” Gladio says.

Gladio takes a cautious step into the kitchen, as though Ignis will demonstrate his aim on him with what remains of his dinnerware. Ignis takes an unconscious step back. Pain flickers through the sole of his foot as a shard digs in and punctures tender skin. It leaves a bright smear on the tile.

“Goddamn... when was the last time you slept?”

“There's too much to do.”

Ignis turns his gaze to the stacks of paperwork and reports on the table. 

“If you don't mind, I still have quite a lot to finish tonight.”

Gladio takes him by the wrist. Ignis resists for only a second, if only because he's too worn out to fight.

“Come here.”

Gladio folds him up, a deadly but gentle giant with more heart than he gets credit for, and Ignis goes to pieces as Gladio holds him close. He becomes one with the fragments of glass on the floor, all broken up and beyond repair, his breathing uneven and panicked.

They can't see him like this, but it's too late. Too late to pretend he's perfect and put together, crisp, starched and in control.

“I got this, dad,” Gladio says. “Go back to bed.”

Ignis is sobbing and he doesn't know how to stop. He can't remember the last time he cried over anything. Not since he was very young. Perhaps a scraped knee or a broken bone, but even then, his tears were subdued because he wasn't allowed to be anything else.

It's  _undignified_.

Unacceptable.

The harder he cries, the tighter Gladio's grip.  

“You're alright, Iggy,” Gladio says. “It's okay.”

“I don't have time for this,” Ignis bawls. “I have work to do.”

“It can wait.”

“But Noct -”

“He can live without knowing the Crownsguard's fiscal budget,” Gladio says. “Come on. Let's get you cleaned up and put to bed.”

“Gladio -” Ignis pulls back and a deep sense of failure wells up inside him. “It's important. I have a deadline.”

“You're more important,” Gladio says. “Now, you gonna cooperate or am I gonna have to drag you to bed?”

Ignis' already red face deepens a shade. His ears start to burn. He half wishes Gladio would. That and other things too indecent to ponder. But he can't ever say that to his face. He would die a thousand deaths before he'd admit the thought crossed his mind.

“I can put myself to bed,” he snaps. “After I clean up this mess.”

“Forget it,” Gladio says. “I got it.”

He glances down at the floor, at the smears of crimson, almost artistic in their placement, and frowns.

Ignis doesn't fight when Gladio picks him up and carries him to the bathroom.

 _To spare the carpet_ , he says.  That strikes a nerve. Gladio knows him too well.

After his wounds are clean and he tumbles into bed, his eyes too heavy and swollen to keep open, Gladio tucks the blanket around him, removes his glasses, and sets them on the nightstand.

“You don't gotta be perfect, Iggy,” he says. “No one expects you to be.”

“ _I_ expect it.”

“Cut yourself some slack,” Gladio says. “You're no good to anyone if you work yourself to death.”

Ignis sighs and closes his eyes.

“Then what do you suggest I do?”

“Take a day off every now and then,” Gladio says. “Do something for yourself..."

Gladio clears his throat.

"Have dinner with me.”

Ignis' eyes pop open.

Either he's so tired he's hearing things, or...

“Are you suggesting a date?”

Gladio's smile is almost shy. _Hopeful_. He shrugs.

“Is it such a bad idea?”

Ignis stops breathing. He's pretty sure his heart's stopped beating too, and now he's freaking out for a different reason.

“Think about it,” Gladio says. “Get back to me.”

Gladio stands up, brushes his hand over the back of Ignis' head and switches out the light.

“I accept your invitation.”

Gladio turns back, his face half in shadow, half illuminated in the hall light, but there's no mistaking his smile.

“You pick the place,” Gladio says. “Now, shut up and go to sleep.”

 

 

When Ignis wakes in the morning, the kitchen is spotless.

The dishes and broken coffee pot have been replaced.

Not a smear of blood anywhere, not a drop of spilled coffee.

Ignis starts a fresh pot, takes a deep breath, and goes back to work.

As if it never happened at all.


End file.
